The Cursed Extra-Chapter 138: [3.11] The Old Soldier Sees Through the Act

"Fear makes you sloppy. Whatever he’s feeling, it isn’t fear."

***

Isolde’s amber eyes locked onto the slight figure who tripped and stumbled through the tunnel. Flinched at every sound. His face a mask of terror.

He moved like a man being led to his own execution. Each step reluctant. Each shadow a potential threat. His teammates barely looked at him. Too focused on their own survival to spare much attention for the weakest link.

Yet something about his movements struck a discordant note in her mind.

Like a familiar tune played in the wrong key. Like a chord that shouldn’t exist, but somehow did.

"Interesting," she murmured. Tipped her flask back for another swallow. The burn didn’t even register anymore. "Very interesting indeed."

"Team Twelve?" Blackthorne’s voice held unmistakable skepticism. His scarred brow furrowed as he glanced at the orb she was studying. Then back at her face. "Those children can barely find their way through without pissing themselves. The Leone boy especially looks like he’s about to faint at any moment. What could possibly be interesting about watching such a pathetic display?"

"Look closer," Isolde insisted. Jabbed her finger at Kaelen’s image hard enough to make the orb wobble in its mounting. "Really watch him. Don’t look at his face. That’s what he wants you to see. Notice where he places his feet. Pay attention to what he does in those moments when he thinks his teammates aren’t looking."

Blackthorne leaned forward.

His ice-blue eyes narrowed as decades of battlefield experience engaged. He had evaluated thousands of soldiers over his career. Sorted the wheat from the chaff. Identified which men would break and which would hold the line.

He studied the boy’s movements with the calculating assessment of a veteran commander who had seen every trick in the book and invented a few of his own.

The silence stretched between them.

On screen, Kaelen flinched away from a shadow. Let out a small yelp of fear.

But as he moved, his feet found stable ground without hesitation.

When the others weren’t looking, his eyes swept the tunnel ahead with a focus that lasted only a heartbeat before the fearful mask slammed back into place.

After a long, silent moment, Blackthorne’s scarred face creased in confusion. A rare expression on features that had seen too much to be surprised by anything.

"He’s... not as incompetent as he appears."

"Bingo." Isolde’s grin was sharp enough to cut glass. Spread across her face with predatory satisfaction. "The little bastard’s putting on a show. He moves like he’s terrified, but his feet never land wrong. He flinches at every sound, but his eyes are tracking everything around him."

She leaned back in her chair. Drummed her fingers against the armrest.

"Question is, why?"

She tapped the orb again. Watched as Kaelen stumbled dramatically and caught himself on a support beam.

The stumble itself looked authentic.

The way his hand found the only stable part of the rotting wood did not.

"A coward doesn’t move like that," she continued. More to herself than to Blackthorne. "A coward makes mistakes. A coward lets fear control where his feet go. This kid’s afraid on the surface, but something else is driving him underneath."

Her attention shifted to another orb. This one showed Team Seven in what looked like a death trap waiting to happen.

The Collapsed Mine section was a maze of unstable tunnels and structural damage. The kind of place where one wrong step could bring the ceiling down on your head and bury you under tons of rock and earth.

Rhys Blackwood led his team with the careful competence of someone who had grown up in dangerous places. The commoner boy moved like he expected the world to try and kill him at any moment.

Because where he came from, it often did.

Every step tested the ground ahead. Every decision weighed risk against necessity. But even his experience couldn’t change the fact that they were walking into a situation designed to kill them.

"Now there’s a team with real potential," Isolde said. Her voice softened slightly despite herself. "Blackwood’s got the instincts of a born survivor. Grew up on the border, if I remember his file. Monster territory. That kid’s fought for his life since before he could walk."

She watched as Rhys guided his teammate around a patch of unstable ground that would have collapsed under weight. The way he did it was subtle. Almost casual. Just a hand on a shoulder redirecting their path without explanation.

"His teammates are learning fast too," she added. "They’re starting to follow his lead without being told. That’s the beginning of real trust. That’s something you can’t teach in a classroom."

"If they survive," Blackthorne observed. His tone neutral but his eyes tracked Team Seven’s progress with new attention.

"If they survive," she agreed. Raised her flask in acknowledgment of the possibility that they wouldn’t. "But that’s what makes it interesting. Safe bets don’t teach you anything. You don’t learn from winning easily."

She drained the last of her flask. Shook it to confirm its emptiness before tucking it back into her robes with a grunt of displeasure.

"It’s the long shots, the desperate plays, the moments when everything’s on the line. That’s when you see what people are really made of. That’s when the mask comes off and you find out whether there’s steel underneath or just more pretense."

She raised her empty flask in a mock toast to the struggling teams displayed before her.

"Come on, kids. Surprise me. Give me a reason to cash in my bet."

The monitoring room fell silent except for the soft hum of the scrying orbs and the distant sound of Professor Delacroix arguing with someone in the hallway. Her melodic voice carried through the walls. Debated something about "theoretical impossibilities" and "axiomatic violations" with the passionate intensity that only someone who had spent nearly two centuries studying magic could muster.

On the screens, the stories continued to unfold.

Leo’s team pressed deeper into their section. A golden spear of righteousness cutting through the darkness. They moved in formation. Shields up. Weapons ready. Executed every maneuver with the kind of polish that would make their instructors proud.

And their enemies complacent.

Vance’s team methodically cleared their assigned tunnels. Privilege and preparation smoothed their path. Their enchanted gear turned what should have been a dangerous trial into something closer to a morning exercise.

And in the depths. In the dangerous places where the light didn’t reach and the walls pressed close. Other teams fought for survival with nothing but desperation and the hope that competence might triumph over circumstance.

Isolde De Clare watched them all. Her amber eyes bright with the hunger of a gambler who had finally found a game worth playing.

Her fingers drummed against the armrest again. That irregular rhythm betrayed her excitement.

In the shadows of the monitoring room, she whispered to herself:

"Show me what you’re really made of."